Yo pack leader! 🐾

Just a quick tail-wagger from the ultimate canine caper-king, Fang the Pirate! 🏴‍☠️ Successfully swiped (and returned) the enemy’s colors today – the mail carrier’s trousers! Our fur-raising mission served a slice of doggie justice AND taught us a lesson in pawsitive morals. Prepping my sniffer for the next grand adventure in Pawsburgh. Staying true to the bark, full of heart! 🐶✨

Tail wags and secret pawshakes,
Fang

Listen to the story here

The call of Cavalier Cove was like a siren’s song to the sea dogs of Pawsburgh — and I, Fang ‘The Pirate,’ was no pup to pine away on the porch while adventure awaited. So one mustn’t marvel that on that fateful morn, beneath the slumbering gaze of the snoozing Smiths, I canvassed my hefty frame over the threshold, the thought of revenge more titillating than even the finest slab of surreptitiously snaffled chicken.

There I met with quick-footed Baxter and high-voltage Rosie. “Mates,” I addressed them with the gravity of a much-wronged sea captain, “this is no mere frolic. Today, we requite an affront of the highest order.”

“On whose head?” enquired Baxter, ears pricked with intrigue.

“Whose trousers?” quizzed Rosie, her tail a-twitch with excitement.

“Set your snouts to the wind and inhale the iniquity—the mail carrier’s trousers beckon,” I declared, my jowls agape with resolution.

In truth, the villainous swish-swish of those heinous navy blues had left my spirit embittered. My bark had tolled like the bell of doom each time they neared, yet the offense persisted. Justice — or rather, a dog’s justice — demanded to be served.

Our conspiracy concocted, we sauntered to Sniffer’s Sandwiches to subdue our stalwart stomachs. Only sustenance enough could brace us for the execution of our plot. I called to the server, “A bite for the brave, if you please — hold the celery.”

Post feast, with our gumption gallantly girded, we let the merry jaunt to Blue Basenji Bay sculpt our strategy. With each crease and crinkle of the Blasted Trousers haunting my musings, I felt the fire of retribution quietly kindling within.

Rosie, blessed with terrier’s temerity and the wit of a whip-smart whippet, suggested sabotage. “We seize the trousers during his daily traverse through Mastiff Meadows. Imagine the delicious defeat! The peace!”

Baxter, ever grounded, reminded us of the peril: “Should we be caught, Pawsburgh Penance is merciless, my friends—a fortnight without Fido’s Feast!”

A draconian penalty, that, but the lure of avenging my auditory agony outweighed all caution.

The anticipated hour approached, and Rosie enacted part one of our ruse. Like a vixen, she darted across the mail carrier’s path, inciting in him a reasonable alarm. I took advantage of his diverted attention and, as stealthy as a bulldog bouncer could, plucked those trousers clean off his belt, abandoned folded like a fallen flag on the ground. The swish-swish ceased; victory was mine!

With a victory march, we proudly trotted to The Pampered Pooch Salon, where spoils of triumph ought to be advertised, not squandered, and our conquest was met with uproarious applause and giggles fit to burst.

However, as often the case with the thrust of vengeance, the prick of conscience followed. The mail carrier’s baffled countenance, denuded of his garment, struck a chord of compassion not easily ignored. A dog is loyal, a dog is brave, but above all, a dog is good-hearted, and it was not in our nature to maraud.

Thus, returning the trousers became the epilogue to our rebellion. A restored mail carrier, slightly humbled but decently covered, resumed his route, oblivious to the piratical paws that had pinched and then pardoned.

As for me, Fang, I retreated home, not in defeat, but in the satisfying knowledge that adventure — and a dog’s gumption for good — knows no bounds in Pawsburgh. And in the silent rumination upon my cool tile floor, the squeaky hamburger beneath my paw, I planned my next grand caper; a more gallant affair perhaps, but just as brimming with potential and pawprints of mischief.

The End.